Part 9 (2/2)

I notice the scratch on her shoulder blade looks a little infected. ”What happened to your shoulder?”

She shelters the spot with her hand. ”Things got a little rough between Laden and I, if you know what I mean.”

I press my lips together. ”How rough?”

Her head whips up and her eyes scorch fire. ”What are you getting at exactly? That I might have had something to do with his death?”

”There's no proof he's dead yet.” I veer down the road that leads to our houses. ”And I didn't say anything about you being involved. It just looks infected.”

”Yeah, whatever. If anyone should be accused of his murder it's you. Especially with the whole I-saw-him-standing-outside-my-house thing. You better watch what you say, Ember, or people are going to think you're as crazy as your dad. Oh wait, they already do.”

At that moment, I hate her. She is not my best friend and I don't care if I ever see her again. I want to rip her hair out and hurt her.

”You need to tell me what happened. With the details,” I demand as I turn into the driveway of her house. I force the s.h.i.+fter into park and place a hand on her arm. ”It's like you're possessed by the devil or something.”

She glances at my hand on her arm and then her eyes drain of emotion. ”I have no idea what you're talking about.” She jerks her arm away and jumps out of the car.

I remove the keys from the ignition and jump out after her. ”Raven, we're not done with this conversation yet. I'm worried about you. You're acting like you've lost your mind.”

”You would be the expert on that, Death Girl.” She whisks around the front of the car and shoves her hand at me. ”My keys, please.” I slam the keys into her palm. ”Thanks, Emmy. And I mean for everything. But honestly, I really need a break from you. You're too much baggage. ” She sashays into her house and slams the door, leaving me in the driveway, stirring in my own anger.

I storm for my house, but a flash of black in the trees sends me to an earthshattering halt. Laden's body hangs from the tree in my front yard, a rope around his neck, and blood dripping from his lips. His pale skin is blue and his eyes stare lifelessly at me.

Death. Silence.

Trying not to panic, I fumble my phone out of my bag and nearly drop it. I start to dial the police, but when I look back at the tree the phone falls from my hands. The body is gone, but his blood still stains the gra.s.s.

Chapter 8.

I swivel in the computer chair with my fingers to my temples. I'm tucked in the corner desk just outside the living room. The words on the computer screen are blurry from the hours of searching on the internet. Ghost possession. Demon possession. Cult rituals. Nothing explains what's going on with Raven. Or what's going on with me.

So I s.h.i.+ft the focus to Garrick. A death omen has never been that powerful before. It felt like a thousand deaths, each one a thorn on a dying rose, individualized but connected to the same vine of life. I start to type something on the keyboard when Ian's head appears over my shoulder and he reads the screen.

”Wow, should I be worried?” he asks, reading my search history on the sidebar.

”We're studying mythology and human nature in English cla.s.s,” I lie easily.

”Well, if you need any help, let me know,” he says. ”I had to study mythology for this oil-based painting cla.s.s I took. The teacher was seriously into that c.r.a.p.”

”Yep, I sure will.” I wait for him to leave and then type ”X tattoo” into the search. Nothing pops out, so I delete ”tattoo” and put ”symbol.” I scroll through the options and click on a link about execution.

I read through the article: ”An X symbol has many representations, one being the elimination of a life.” I slump back in the chair and cross my arms. ”Well, look at that. It does have to do with death.”

Still, why does Garrick have an X on his eye? Could Garrick be... could Garrick be causing the disappearances? But why does he have so many death omens?

I stretch my fingers and type: Death Omens. I highlight the search b.u.t.ton with the cursor, and hesitate before clicking it. I skim through the search results, until I come across a sketch of an angel with her head tucked down, tears seeping from her eyes, and black smudges on her cheeks. Her dark wings elongate the page and a lifeless rose crumbles from her hand. A skeletal pattern tattoos her arms and legs and a circle rounds the stone floor beneath her bare feet.

”It's just like in Asher's painting of Angel,” I mutter. Grim Angel is the t.i.tle of the sketch. ”It's like a mix between the Grim Reaper and an Angel.”

I do a search on Grim Angel. ”Grim Angels are a unique breed immune to most of the Angel of Deaths' and the Grim Reapers' gifts. Grim Angels are believed to be insane due to the curse of their hybrid breeding of an Angel of Death and a Grim Reaper, which plagues them with a constant burden of death. They may suffer from blackouts and lose track of their mind, if not properly taken care of.” I read the note aloud again. ”Blackouts and a general burden of constant death.” I s.h.i.+ver and peek over my shoulder, just to make sure I'm not sprouting wings. But the inner voice deep inside me disagrees.

After reading a few more websites, and finding nothing else, I give up for the night. ”What are these things, like some kind of hush-hush mythical species no one is supposed to talk about or something?”

I shove the chair back, shut off the computer, and flop down on the couch next to Ian. ”Is mom home yet?”

He surfs through the channels with the remote. ”Nah, she called and said she's going to be late.”

”Did you check on her prescription to see if it was still full?”

”Yeah... and it's still full. She hasn't taken them for at least a week.”

”We should talk to her about it,” I say. ”She came home last night totally wasted. And ranting about dad being a killer.”

Ian turns down the volume of the TV and sets the remote down. ”Where was I?”

I point over my shoulder at the staircase. ”Upstairs in the attic with your 'muse.'”

He squirms uneasily. ”Did you get her upstairs okay?”

I grab a handful of skittles from the candy bowl on the coffee table and pop them into my mouth. ”Yeah, I made do.”

He slips off his beanie to ruffle his hair. ”Was she nice to you?”

I seal my lips together and force the tears to back down. ”She was fine, I guess.”

”I can tell when you're lying.” Ian pushes the sleeves of his s.h.i.+rt up and kicks his feet up on the table. ”What did she say to you?”

Ian knows about my rough relations.h.i.+p with our mother to an extent, but there are pieces I omit from him, like her accusations that I killed Grandma Nelly.

”She was as nice as she always is.” I scoop up another handful of skittles and get up from the couch. ”I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning.”

”Ember...” He struggles for words. ”You know you can talk to me about stuff. My meds are helping a lot and I think I can handle things now.”

”I know,” I say, but he can't. It's in his eyes-the fear I might open up and he'll have to deal with it. So I bottle it up-the accident, Raven, death, that I saw Laden's body hanging from our tree. ”And if I do ever feel like talking, you'll be the first one I come to.”

He lets out a breath of relief and turns back to the TV. I trudge up to my room, wondering when I'll crack.

Chapter 9.

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